CHAPTER I. THE DECK Your hero paints the picture.
Your hero paints the picture.
My name is Anselm Merrywood. And I answer to a call—from a woman! One invitation remained behind, in a cluttered drawer, the envelope of forwarded address. Another was fully on display, atop a spacious deck. You too would find the girl inviting. At least you should.
Appreciate a good painting? You have come to the right place! The girl has blue eyes, a button nose, and bantam figure. The picture was mounted on a craftsman railing, framed by cloudless sky and sea. A glass of wine glistened in her hand, light-brown locks fell over narrow shoulders, bare feet played with a potted plant, and a loose skirt teased the painter, wind-billowed at her knees. A slight smile posed a puzzle, and she knew.
Like what you see? Please join the party, the picture had peekers aplenty! A stained glass door slid open to a plush patio, where seasoned redwood made the decking, rainbowed umbrellas shaded a ring of tables, and colorful cocktails glinted like precious stones. My Pink Lady packed a punch, loose laughter lent more warmth, and a little industry furthered the festival—bees dotting a swath of showy white petals, a tranquil hum arriving on the gentle breeze. A bluebird flitted from the fence, goldfinches livened the bushes, and a splash of red flamed across the flowers—a carmine-throated hummingbird darting past the jasmine to hover by a rarer nectar. A flower girl has an attraction. She looked over the garden and saw it was good. And the free bird commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart. Our angel swayed in sympathy, her blessing backed by a timeless beat, the breaking of the surf.
We spoke too soon. The weather changed; a scowl withdrew the invitation. And a scorn drained the canvas, blacking out all plumage, turning her wine to water, clouding her eyes to gray.
The sliding door was shut. A wind had picked up, bending boats at sea and fogging out the sun. But the gales of laughter had died down, the dropping temperature driving merrymakers inside, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil. A sullen sentinel now stood in a corner, alone on her feet. Her lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, interrogating my witness, exposing my guilt. I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over an abandoned table where a shabby starling was stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice rebuffed my stillborn greeting, as attainable as Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid. A wisp of smoke rose over the railing, conspiring with the fog. But no warm bonfire beckoned, the changeling waving a cigarette. Her inconsideration imposed before a wind dispersal, though her lips saw little of the vice. I presumed a provocation; my fellow sufferers pretended not to care. The devil took a last drag, lost the litter, glanced at the glow, and took care of the business. With her foot! We could pretend no more.
A teenager tosses some trash. So what, you shrug? I will tell you what: When a writer goes to the trouble, you should pay more attention! A foot trod on the glare. A foot twisted on the smolder. A foot trampled out the fire. And the foot was bare, as I already told you. I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, his arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my shabby insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?
Merrywood! . . . Some advice? . . . No, you are doomed.